


Intro to Ethics

by thegirlnamedcove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Good Peter Hale, Light Angst, M/M, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Power Imbalance, Romantic Soulmates, Secret Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Teacher-Student Relationship, relationships listed in order of screen time, the tags spoil the everloving hell out of this, very lowkey enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlnamedcove/pseuds/thegirlnamedcove
Summary: "The universe isn’t wrong about this stuff, the soulmate spell is ironclad, and that means you know this is going to work out. That’s something people don’t get with friends, or dating around.”“Sure, people say that,” Stiles gestured at the mark where his arm was now stretched out along the back of the couch, “but we don’t actually have any way of knowing. None of us signed up for this. The Ancestors just decided to bestow it upon us and we all have to live with it. Maybe it’s not magic compatibility after all, maybe people just learn to live with one another because everyone around them is telling them to.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Steter Secret Santa, a gift for votecrowleyforministerofmagic on tumblr. The last three chapters are still with my beta reader but I don't want to leave you in the lurch, so I was thinking I'd post a chapter a day, for a total of eight. So that it has good pacing and doesn't cut off at a weird spot.
> 
> I cut out so much angry grumbling about class differences, you don't even know. This grew major legs.

Professor Hale stalked across the front of the room, setting worksheets out in neat stacks for the students to collect. He was relaxed, loose-limbed, and Stiles thought it probably owed to the impending term break. His students would all be writing research papers over Thanksgiving break but he, the indemnable bastard, probably had no such obligations. When he reached the small wooden podium again he leaned forward, forearms braced against the edge.

“Remember that this will count towards your final exam. It is because you are putting in the work now that you will not have an essay portion later, and we will be able to end this class a week early. So don’t slack off. If I see that you have, and the work you turn in is low or no effort, I _will_ make you come in during that week.”

Stiles scoffed and then ducked down in his seat when Professor Hale glanced his way. He seemed to lock right onto Stiles, but his gaze quickly skittered away so he figured he probably wasn’t caught.

Not that it mattered. This wasn’t high school, he wasn’t going to get detention or anything. He paid to be here, he could be as resentful as he wanted to be.

And oh, he wanted.

Mostly, he wanted to punch this stupid Professor’s face in. It had been three straight months of torture from this guy and he was past sick of it. Five vocabulary sheets a week, a new book read in its entirety and a matching write-up every two weeks, irregular and unpredictable tests, and this would be their second essay. If they’d been graduate students, or in an accelerated program, okay. It would have still been shitty, but it would’ve been understandable. But they weren’t. This was an intro level class with no prerequisites, meant to give a quick rundown on who Plato and Camus were for people who’d slept through their public school education.

 _Even then_ he could have still drudged some sympathy up from the blackest parts of his soul if the guy teaching it had just been studious. Sometimes professors just cared too goddamn much about chemistry or whatever and assumed the students shared the same enthusiasm. They could usually be reasoned with or, if not, at least relied upon for help when the workload got to be too much.

This guy, though. This fucking guy. Stiles wasn’t sure how he’d stumbled into his position—maybe by fucking his way through the administration, maybe through bribery and threats, maybe by using the wealth he clearly had based on the slippery silk shirt he had half unbuttoned that particular day—but it wasn’t based on his teaching ability.

His entire presentation for John Calvin had been a single powerpoint slide reading, “Bit of a douche.”

So Stiles’ resentment was well placed and under any other circumstances he wouldn’t mind the guy knowing just exactly what he thought of him but he’d had it ingrained in him by his dad early on not to make enemies unnecessarily and he was damn glad he’d stuck to that today. Because Babcia was coming all the way from Poland to visit for the first time in an actual decade and there was no way he was writing this term paper. He didn’t care how bad he had to grovel and kiss ass, as soon as they were dismissed he was getting that extension.

That in mind, he hiked his shorts down a little lower around his hips. He didn’t know which way Professor Hale swung, but any little advantage he could get was on the table right now.

“Papers over the assigned six pages will not get extra credit so don’t even try,” he leveled a look at the firey haired girl near the back row who slunk down in her seat, “and papers without appropriate sources will be circular filed.”

He rapped his knuckles on the podium a few times and then when no one cowered appropriately, he sighed.

“That means thrown in the paper shredder.”

A few students cringed, which seemed to finally satisfy him. He waved the class off with a petulant-sounding “dismissed” and turned towards the small desk in the corner to gather his things. These smaller rooms were less prestigious than the ampitheaters the tenured professors taught in, and it meant that every afternoon he had to pack his things into a briefcase and made the trek back to his actual office god-knows-where to get his grading and other work done. Stiles had maybe five minutes to push his way to the front and corner the man, and he swung his backpack on and threw himself into the crowd of bodies before Professor Hale had even started stacking folders.

He snatched a worksheet off the top of the stack as he strode past and folded it to fit in his back pocket.

“Professor Hale? I was wondering if you had a moment.”

He turned, dutifully, although his face bore nothing but annoyance and quirked an eyebrow at Stiles. His eyes tracked from head to toe, blatantly judging Stiles’ clothes and appearance and maybe even his aura for how thorough his assessment seemed. Then he opened his mouth and spoke.

“And what can I do for you, youngling?”

Stiles’ blood froze in his veins at the same time his soulmark flared hot on his forearm and solidified from a cloudy gray into solid black. He stared, wide-eyed, into the face of a must-be-forty-year-old professional asshole and saw the same indignant panic he must be wearing reflected back at him. The professor glanced down at his forearm, exposed below the cuff of his t shirt, and then back up, three or four times.

“I…so many people say that to me that I just…I mean, I didn’t even notice and you’re so…oh my god. How _old_ are you?”

“Nineteen,” he offered, faintly. Professor Hale winced and started to take a step back before catching himself.

Well, at least he’d definitely be getting that extension now.

 

***

 

There wasn’t a cafe or restaurant within ten miles of campus that Peter—he insisted right away that Stiles stop calling him ‘professor’—felt comfortable going to with a student, so instead he found himself crammed into one in a row of academic offices, all tucked into a back hallway. Peter had locked the door behind them and drawn down the tiny asinine shade over the frosted glass before finally uncoiling enough to collapse into his desk chair. A long silence stretched out and Stiles felt his scowl growing with each passing minute. Finally Peter broke it, although he didn’t offer much more than a weak, “Nineteen.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice short, “Nineteen. As in an adult. You could act less like I’m an infant, especially since apparently you knew your soulmate would be a student.”

Peter looked up from where he’d been studying the wood grain, a fire suddenly behind his eyes.

“Everyone calls me Professor Hale. The other staff, the front desk girls, even the waitresses at the iHop near my house. I’ve used my university id enough times.”

With that out he deflated a little, and ran both hands through his hair. When they came away there was a slight shine of hair grease on his fingers and Stiles’ scowl worsened.

“Besides, I do have students who are older. People changing careers, people filling in credits before graduate school, and so on. I assumed—or, well, _hoped—_ it would be one of them.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t my idea of a perfect choice either. For fuck’s sake, you look like a pirate!”

Peter’s eyebrows drew together and his mouth softened, almost to a smile.

“What?”

“The fucking…silk thing,” he gestured broadly at the man’s shirt, “all flowing and white and I can see practically to the bottom of your sternum. It’s even bunched at the wrists. And your slacks are tucked into those stupid pointy ass boots, and the worst part is, I don’t think you got up this morning and thought, ‘hey, I should dress like the cover of treasure island today’. I think it just _happened_ because that’s the kind of oblivious overgrown rich kid you are, and no one has told you your clothes look stupid in a really long time.”

Stiles kicked at the table leg in front of him to punctuate his point, although he knew it didn’t help the accusations Peter was leveling at him about his age, and glowered at the ground. The meeting of his soulmate, the one person who was supposed to be perfect for him in every way, and it was going so fucking well so far he felt like he was going to throw up. He thought about his own mom and dad, the way they’d looked at one another with something like pride all the time, even when they weren’t doing anything spectacular or praiseworthy. His stomach was a pit of molten acid.

When he chanced a look back up, Peter wasn’t angry or even scowling. Instead, a small smirk had slipped its way onto his face and he was playing with his lapel with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re right,” he said, tone now conversational instead of tense, “No one has spoken to me like that in years.”

Stiles’ face scrunched up in confusion, “What, and you get turned on by insults?”

He rolled his eyes and with them his whole head.

“No, you idiot. But I do think I’m starting to understand some things. Look, there’s all kinds of issues with our respective positions but there has to be some kind of protocol for this. We just cannot be the first two people in this situation. Maybe it’ll be as simple as moving you to another class, I don’t know. In the meantime, we should try to get to know one another off campus, outside of our roles. Give this a real chance.”

He caught Stiles’ eye and he looked almost plaintive. The panic that had been so firmly focused on Stiles’s presence had now shifted to a panic over him leaving, and it made him feel like a dick.

“Here, I’ll give you my address,” Peter fished a notepad out of one of his drawers and started scribbling, “The door code is on here too. Come over on Friday whenever you’re done, after six anyway, and let yourself in. We can talk.”

He tore the page off and reached across the desk to offer it, pinned between two fingers.

Stiles hesitated, his own hand hanging in mid air before finally pushing himself to take it. He lifted his hips and stuffed it in the same back pocket as the worksheet from before. Peter’s eyes trailed along his exposed stomach and hips as he moved and he took comfort that at least that much of their relationship was working right out the gate.

“Okay, Peter. I’ll be there.”


	2. Chapter 2

Despite praying to every deity he could think of on his way home, Scott was in the living room when Stiles walked in the front door of their apartment, a game controller held loosely in his hands as he navigated Rainbow Road for what must have been the thousandth time. He glanced up and grinned before refocusing on the screen and rapidly tapping a short combination of buttons.

“Hey, man. Saw you stayed behind to talk to Professor McDreamy. Working hard for a better grade?”

Stiles scowled and dumped his things on the floor in piles around him, except his shoes which he kicked off and towards Scott’s shins. He yelped and twisted away, but didn’t deviate from the goal in front of him. Once Stiles was relieved of all his detritus he threw himself down on Scott’s other side, obscuring the screen just long enough to be irritating, and sunk into the cushions.

He sent out a thank you to whoever had abandoned this futon on the side of the road, just like he did every time he sat down. They didn’t know what they were giving up, clearly.

“First of all, you’re not allowed to watch any more Grey’s Anatomy.”

“Just you try and stop me.”

“ _Second of all,_ ” he knocked his shoulder against Scott’s, “I was trying to get out of that stupid paper, and got sidetracked. He…I mean, it’s kind of….weird. But not that weird, it happens all the time, I’d be surprised if we were the first, he said the same thing, but it just felt, like, I didn’t think it would happen like that and I spent the whole bus ride home trying not to go into an anxiety spiral and I just—”

“Stiles!” Scott snapped, and he finally set the controller down on the table and turned his body and attention to Stiles. On the television his character careened off the edge and it cut to the losing screen, “What happened? I know I was joking about it but did he…force you? To do anything?”

“What?! No, I—”

“Because it kind of sounds like something weird happened and—”

“Scott, that’s not it at all, we just talked—”

“If you don’t want to say too much, it’s fine, but you know my girlfriend works for that student advocacy thing and—”

Stiles growled under his breath and thrust his arm up by Scott’s face, sticking a finger into his cheek and pushing to be sure the soulmark was right in his line of sight. It took a moment for the color difference to fully process, but once the dumb look melted away on his face it was replaced by a sort of joyful apprehension, and a smile that never quite came to fruition.

“You met your soulmate?” he breathed the words, as if being too loud might make the universe take it back.

“Yeah. Professor Fucking McDreamy. An ugly, ugly soul who could genuinely be my father, is the person I deserve over everyone else in the world. And I just keep thinking…” the anxiety from the commute home rose back up in his throat like bile, and he had to clear his throat twice before he could talk again, “I just keep thinking, what the hell does that say about me?”

“Oh, man,” Scott lurched forward and gathered Stiles into his arms, a hand on the back of his head. He didn’t cry, wasn’t quite there yet, but he did slump forward into the hold and let all his breath out in a ragged sigh.

“It’s a weird fucking day.”

Scott snorted, “I bet so.”

When they finally broke apart Scott had a little grin on his face that he didn’t seem able to dim, and he leaned back against the corner of the futon to stare up at the ceiling.

“It’s really good you found him though,” Scott said “even though it’s fucked right now. Because the universe isn’t wrong about this stuff, the soulmate spell is ironclad, and that means you know this is going to work out. That’s something people don’t get with friends, or dating around.”

His forehead drew down in the beginnings of a scowl and Stiles knew he was thinking about Allison. They’d been together five years and genuinely cared about one another. But, at the end of the day, both their soulmarks were still pale and unfulfilled, and their personalities never quite clicked. She was a bit too viscious in her ambitions, and he was a bit too noble to indulge her, even if they were both perfectly kindhearted on the surface. He’d shared his doubts with Stiles before, always after a few shots so that he felt like he had an excuse for voicing his thoughts without judgement. Fears that he was holding himself back from really loving her, that he was selfish for wanting to wait for his soulmate. Fears that he’d never find his person and end up stuck in limbo forever. Fears that he would find his soulmate, but only after he had finally learned how to let go and gotten married.

When he was sober he never discussed those things, though, and no matter what Stiles or any of their other friends said he wasn’t willing to break up with Allison. So it stayed in perpetual freefall, and Stiles knew better than to let him start to dwell on it.

“Sure, people say that,” he gestured at the mark where his arm was now stretched out along the back of the couch, “but we don’t actually have any way of knowing. None of us signed up for this. The Ancestors just decided to bestow it upon us and we all have to live with it. Maybe it’s not magic compatibility after all, maybe people just learn to live with one another because everyone around them is telling them to.”

Scott grinned a little, again, although Stiles could tell he was holding back all kinds of incredulous sighs and condescending head pats by the way his lips curled and pressed together, “Then you’ll learn to get along with Professor McDreamy. You’re a great guy, and I’m sure he has…qualities. Of some kind. Positive ones, maybe.”

“Ringing endorsement, Scotty boy,” Stiles snarked, but he was relaxing too. Maybe he was right—he usually had a high opinion of himself, today was something of an anomaly—maybe this was more about commitment than anything else. Or maybe it would blow up in his face. At the end of the day the only way to out of this was through.

“Let’s play some games, help me decompress,” Stiles said, leaning forward to snatch up the abandoned controller and it’s match from the coffee table. He felt a hand graze along his ass and then a crinkling of paper told him he’d lost the papers out of his back pocket.

“Hey, the worksheet, I forgot to grab one!” Scott said, and before Stiles could register what he was holding he’d already shifted his gaze lower, to the smaller note stuck in the fold, “What’s this bit? Is it…did Peter give you his address?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, “He wants to meet up later in the week, get to know each other. He seemed really bummed that it was me but he’s…trying, I guess?”

“Stiles, this building is insanely nice. Like, _insanely_.”

Stiles frowned at the note where Scott was holding it aloft. 2245 Triskele Loop, Gunther Building was written in neat script, followed by Apt P02, Code 45024 circled in red. Since it didn’t have a crossroad he couldn’t gauge the neihborhood, but he had a feeling Peter Hale lived somewhere with marble countertops at least.

“Yeah, dude, kind of figured.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Scott shook his head, “My mom used to deliver candy to this area, it’s mansion level shit. The Hales are a big family, you can find them all over the place, but one branch in particular is massively wealthy. Like, one of her customers had a salt water filtration system built into his condo so he could house his pet octopus in the right water.”

“Wait…” Stiles grabbed the note like it could give him any answers besides what he already knew, “That can’t be right. What’s he doing at Northern California College then? Shouldn’t he be with his people in some place covered in vines and moss and shit?”

“I dunno, man. You should do some research before you go to see him. Just make sure he’s not, like, part of the mob or something.”

Stiles hummed his assent and reached absentmindedly for the laptop he kept slid under the lip of the couch for safekeeping. He set it to boot up and flipped the note over, searching the blank side for any clues he could find.

“If I show up, and he’s having some kind of Eyes Wide Shut orgy, I’m peacing the fuck out of there, soulmate or not.”

Scott chuckled and then bumped at his shoulder with his hand, “Hey but if it works out maybe he can just give us an apartment and we can leave this shithole.”

Stiles smacked him, lightly, and then settled against his side, google open in front of him and a few hours of internet stalking queued up and ready to go.

* * *

 

He didn’t see any rogue octopods, driving through Triskele Loop, but he could honestly say that one wouldn’t be out of place if it did choose to show up. The houses were the kind of modern architecture that made it look like a child had built them out of mismatched legos, all harsh angles and precarious overhangs, while the cars in the driveways and few open garages tended towards the vintage, round lines and gaudy chrome. At one house he saw a man in khakis and a button down shirt washing an Aston Martin with a hose. In another, a group of children were fighting over the controller for a small drone.

Without fail, every single resident turned to look at his garbage Jeep as it rolled by, a little puzzled or maybe a little stern. Whatever their opinion of him, the attention made him feel like a sideshow.

The building Peter had indicated on the note was at the very end of the loop, a dark gray stone monolith, and by the door sat an opening for a parking garage with an attendant. At least he wouldn’t have to park along the street, in full view of the neighbors. He had a gnawing feeling that one of them would call for a tow if he stepped away for even a second.

The attendant—dressed in a bright orange visibility vest, dress slacks, and bow tie—looked about as happy to be there as Stiles was, and snorted when he pulled his Jeep all the way up to the boom gate.

“Lost?”

Stiles snorted back and flashed him a quick grin, “I wish. Just visiting, I have the door code and everything.”

He nodded along, scribbling quickly on his pad of paper, and then ripped the first leaf off the top and passed it through the window.

“Cool, cool. Put your car in park and leave the key in, you can head on up. When you’re ready to leave just hand whoever’s on shift this receipt and we’ll fetch your car for you.”

“I…” he accepted the slip with a furrow in his brow, “What?”

“Free valet parking,” the guy shrugged, “None of the residents trust their neighbors not to double park or swap paint with them or whatever, so they hired me.”

“Oooookay,” Stiles said, and with a shake of his head he swung out the driver’s side, grabbing his backpack out of the open backseat as he walked around towards the glass front of the building. He tossed the attendant a quick salute, which was returned with a roll of the eyes, and stepped into the small foyer.

The floor was polished to a mirrored shine, and Stiles was a little gratified to see he was leaving shoeprints as he made his way to the elevator. It opened to more mirrored walls, and more marble, and when he hit the button for P02 the LED readout demanded a code before it would move. When it finally sprang into motion, it was with a smooth glide instead of the usual lurch he was familiar with, and he huffed a little in frustration.

Maybe it wasn’t an orgy but…this place was fucking weird.

The elevator doors opened into a living room, two sectional couched bracketing the space like parenthesis, and a massive TV mounted over a fake fireplace, with glowing multicolored coals, and Peter Hale sprawled on his belly in the middle, chin resting on his folded hands and a well worn book open in front of him.

His head popped up at the ding that announced Stiles’ arrival and a few emotions flit across his face—mainly surprise and fondness—before settling on a sort of grim determination. He pushed himself up with his hands and hopped to his feet, a sudden study in motion, and ushered Stiles through a wide doorway into an equally sized kitchen. The bar along one side already had a few stools pulled out, and a pile of neat paperwork in front of them, and Stiles took the cue and sat at the one closest to the edge.

“Good morning, I’m glad you decided to come,” Peter said, and the faint nervousness running through his voice was balanced out by the way he commandeered his own spot, arms folded against the edge of the counter and legs wide, taking up as much space as he physically could. Stiles smirked, faintly, reminded once again of a sea captain posturing for his men. Blessedly, Peter had left the boots off today.

“I said I’d come, so I did. Although I'm not sure what exactly you wanted to talk about.”

Peter frowned, “Well, I thought we’d get to know one another. But if you’re really opposed to…well, conversation…I suppose we could just talk about our arrangement.”

“Our arrangement?” Stiles asked, and his eyebrows crept towards his hairline.

“Yes,” Peter sighed, “Our arrangement. What we intend to do about the soulmate business in the short term. Obviously long term we would ideally get married—”

Stiles scoffed, and then ducked his head to avoid Peter’s glare.

“—but I recognize that something like that is basically unfathomable for someone your age. So, for right now, what do we want to do about this soulmate thing?”

“You mean how we keep the secret?” Stiles asked, “Or…what?”

Peter ran his hands along the counter, his frown deepening and growing more sour by the minute.

“I know it’s complicated—” he started, and then seemed unsure of how to continue. He started over, “I know our positions are strange. I really want to make this work, and if it involves moving you classes, fantastic, but if it involves more than that, leaving my position altogether? Well, I’m prepared to do that.”

Stiles’ eyebrows joined the stratosphere and he slumped against the low back of the barstool, all his muscles suddenly slack and unguided. He’d come into this with very few expectations, and a lot of reservations, but if Peter was offering….well, what was Peter even offering? At the moment it felt like he was holding up his whole life on a silver platter, for Stiles to rip up and ruin as he pleased.

“Maybe we don’t have to go that far,” he offered, his voice dim against the oppressive quiet that had settled between them. At Peter’s questioning glance he rolled his eyes, although he held no illusion that it looked like anything more than an affectation, “Let’s not go burning things to the ground just yet. You have more to lose than I do, what with your,” he flapped a hand around in front of his face, “ivory tower and all. Let’s start at level one, with dating, and work our way up to your plan.”

Peter’s frown lessened, if only by a fraction, but his fingers wrung together in a tight twist.

“If we date publicly, we might as well be skipping straight ahead to the worst case scenario. Surely you recognize that?”

“So we date here. You have the space, clearly. You can even hire a few serfs to feed us grapes or whatever. We'll wait to tell family and whatnot. Just…let’s not jump to catastrophe before we’ve even started, yeah? Hell, I don’t even know if I like you yet.”

Peter huffed, and shifted his gaze to his fingers.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I like you.”

“That’s a lie,” Stiles snorted, “but I guess I appreciate it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go on zillow, refine your search terms to million dollar houses and up, and start counting bathrooms. Above a certain price point it's like they just throw bathrooms in every available nook and it's bizarre. Why? What correlation do toilets have to luxury?


	3. Chapter 3

He hung around the penthouse for the rest of the day, taking in the ammenities. Some of it was enviable, he had to admit, like the wine fridge by the pool that made sure he stayed fancy drunk almost the entire time.

Other aspects, he had a harder time acclimating to.

“Six bathrooms, Peter. How? That’s got to just be a logistical nightmare, at least half of them must be constantly out of toilet paper.”

Peter rolled his eyes were he sat on the edge of the pool, his suit too fancy to fully submerse but flattering all the same.

“There’s one for the master, one for each guest room, one for the main floor, and one with a shower for rinsing the chlorine off. Which you will be using, I will not allow you to ruin my marble floors.”

Stiles scoffed, and pitched forward in his inner tube, hands already flying as they tried to express what he was feeling before his mouth got the chance.

“That’s five. You forgot the weird on in the hall that I thought was a closet. For _servants_ , Peter. And I don’t care that you don’t call your current maid that, it was built in for that purpose, and it is _ridiculous_.”

Peter scowled and threw a pool float at Stiles’ head, where it bounced off ineffectually and landed softly on the surface of the water.

“Were you hoping for something more provincial, darling? Maybe a soulmate who eats ramen out of a tin cup? Sews their own underwear out of flour sacks?”

“Uh uh,” Stiles said, stern even when the chianti had him feeling loose and pliable, “You don’t get to make this a class thing. Having more bathrooms than bedrooms is just stupid, I don’t care how rich or poor you are.”

“You kind of care that I’m rich,” Peter threw out, and Stiles ducked his head into the water to collect his thoughts.

If he was honest…he did care, and it was making a lot of today difficult for him. Sure, Peter came by it honestly—or, as honest as a multi-million dollar inheritance could be—and he seemed to treat it more as a safety net than an endless piggy bank like some people out there. Still, something about it stuck in Stiles’ craw, kept him constantly on guard, and every time he turned around there was another reminder.

When they sat down to lunch and a slight woman seemingly evaporated out of nowhere to cook for them? There was the Hale money. When Peter proposed a movie and queued up a TV the size of Stiles’ living room rug? There was the Hale money again. When they headed down to the pool and Peter opened a closet of spare swimsuits in various sizes. Well, shit, there it was, displayed on clothes hangers that were coated in white enamel so as not to leave wrinkles on the stretchy water-absorbant material.

It wasn’t just the power imbalance, either—although that hadn’t escaped his notice. Stiles would never be able to compete with Peter, no matter how well his career went once he graduated. Mostly what bothered him was the sheer opulance of it, the excess. Peter owned things that no human being had any right to own, and it _bothered him_. He didn’t know how to fix that.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his alcohol-addled mouth getting ahead of his brain, “Next date you come to my place, the one I share with Scott. It’s off campus so no one will see your skinny ass, so long as you dress down. Go full undercover Avengers hero, get a baseball cap and a hoodie. Then you can get a sense of how I live, and meet one of the most important people to me. And we can bond. Maybe find some commonalities.”

He blew out where the water lapped up against his lips, making bubbles like he’d learned to do as a child during swim lessons.

“And fewer bathrooms,” he added, and he would’ve sworn he saw Peter crack a smile.

“Alright,” Peter said, “but I’m bringing something. I don’t want to know what you consider acceptable alcohol but I’m confident my gut can’t handle it.”

“Aw, poor baby,” Stiles affected a pout, “Will you need something pre-chewed too?”

Peter chuckled and kicked a foot out, sending a gentle slosh of water in Stiles’ direction.

* * *

 

Scott, predictably, was atwitter when he heard the news.

It was a little disconcerting, actually, how _much_ Scott knew about the Hales, considering that Stiles hadn’t been at all aware of that name before his visit with Peter. He changed his shirt three or four times, cleaned the bathroom twice, threw a pot of water with lemons and cloves in it on the stove to simmer (“since when do we have a spice cabinet, dude?”), and babbled constantly as he went.

“—and they’re pioneering the self-driving car thing. I know that Google is using it for their map cars and whatever, but the Hale family all have at least one for personal use, and they’ve got this closed track they take them out on in order to judge how well they can function in normal traffic. I heard at the big Innovators Expo last year one of the younger ones got up on stage and knocked back, like, a whole handle of tequila and then got in the car in order to show off the anti DUI features. God, Allison’s grandpa was _so mad_ , it was kind of gratifying, because his self piloting stuff has mostly gone down the tubes. Of course Allison was mad too, so I couldn’t really enjoy it. When Allison’s mad, the whole world is falling apart. Still, though, I would’ve paid big money to—”

“Wait, Allison knows them?”

Scott snorted, wrist deep now in a sink full of dishes he’d pulled out of the most unlikely corners of the apartment.

“Yeah, man, Argent Industries fucking hates the Hales. I don’t know if it’s a Hatfield and McCoy thing or if it’s just because Mr Argent needs someone to blame for their crappy numbers, but like every work meeting involves some kind of shade thrown their way. As if us lowly data monkeys give a shit about company loyalty, honestly.”

“Wow,” Stiles frowned. He’d known that Allison’s family did pretty well for themselves, given the parties she’d thrown, in a shi-shi development where the houses were all so identical you could never find your way around. He’d known she pulled some strings with ‘the family business’ to get Scott a job when he found himself floundering after college in an oversaturated IT job market. But somehow he hadn’t ever connected Allison Argent to the Argent Industries logo on his laptop, in the same way he never connected Peter Hale to the Hale Finance that handled his bank loan. After all, there was no connection between his old lacrosse buddy Chad Moen and the Moen on his showerhead. It was all just names.

Except when it wasn’t just names. He wondered if Scott really talked about his job that little that he’d never brought it up before, or if he’d been a negligent best friend.

Scott plowed on, “Especially when they think free lunch counts as a benefit. Like, I appreciate not having to buy a deli sandwich every day, but I would appreciate it more if they paid me enough that buying lunch was affordable, and I’d like it even more if they just admitted the lunch thing is a ploy to keep me at my desk instead of letting me leave the building, walk around, take a goddamn government-mandated break once in a while.”

“Corporate America, man. We are all but serfs.”

Scott snorted and shot Stiles a grin, balming his anxieties a little.

“Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve done what you’re doing, you know? Get a real degree.”

Stiles stepped off from the counter and slapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“Your certs _are_ real, man, and there’s no one better at this shit than you. You wanted a career with no student debt, and you fucking managed it. You’re in a better boat than most of us.”

He hummed but nodded, a quick duck of the head in deference to Stiles’ point. They’d had this conversation before, in better circumstances and worse, and it always swung back around to the same issue. Any job Scott was actually interested in would take a graduate degree, and he didn’t have fifty thousand dollars laying around to piss away. It would be great to be a vet or a teacher, but it wasn’t happening this lifetime. In previous conversations, Stiles usually wrapped him up in a hug and offered, “maybe in our next life”, and then the discussion petered out, too maudlin to keep up and no real solutions in sight.

“What time is it now?”

Stiles craned his neck to the side to check the clock on the wall and came back, a spare smile on his face.

“Five minutes till. He’ll be here any minute.”

“Oh my god,” Scott breathed, and then dumped the rest of the unwashed dishes into the soapy water to hide them. He dried his hands on the towel hanging on the oven and then again on his jeans, and Stiles tried to hide a smirk behind his hand.

“You know, anyone watching this would think it was your soulmate, man.”

Scott blushed, and rolled his eyes in a spare attempt at scorn.

“No, it’s not Peter, it’s just…the Hales, you know? I want to make a good impression. The sort of stuff they do with computers is amazing.”

“Uh-huh…”

“I don’t even know what Peter _looks_ like.”

“But you know someone, no way you’ve gone this long not seeing a press release picture. Not acting like this.”

Scott was spared by the doorbell ringing and ducked away to answer. Stiles had been teasing, mostly, but there was no denying how caught out Scott was acting and it made him smile a little.

Maybe they didn’t talk as much—and that would be changing, as of today—but Stiles still knew what Scott looked like with a crush. Even if it was nerd crush.

“He brought wine!” Scott announced when he reentered the kitchen, face still a ruddy embarrassed red. Peter trailed behind him, hands slung low in his pockets, and Stiles felt his jaw drop in shock.

“T shirt!” he managed, and then just kept staring at Peter tried to hold back his laughter.

“I was told my wardrobe was too…flamboyant,” he offered, a smile on his lips.

Which…could be one interpretation of Stiles’ incessant clothing critiques, but he’d never expected them to be followed, let alone to this degree. Peter Hale, Professor of Ethics and Law at Northern California College was standing in the kitchen of his crappy two bedroom apartment, one foot on the cracked tile the landlord refused to fix and leaning against the doorjamb that needed painting, in a Rolling Stones t shirt, a gray hoodie, and a pair of Dungarees. Work pants. _Cargo_ work pants.

“Stiles?” Scott smacked at his shoulder, and he just barely managed to pry his eyes away from the sight, “Wine.”

“Yeah. Yeah, the wine key is in with the pizza cutter. I’ll get the food,” he said, and then turned bodily towards the fridge.

Peter, turns out, was gorgeous, and the realization hit Stiles like a bus. He was sure the jeans, at least, had cost him a fortune—there was no way he bought anything at an outlet store—but the shirt had that stretched out quality that was impossible to replicate, plus a few spattered holes along the hem and a smear of paint at the collar, and it clung to the planes of his chest like an old friend, highlighting everything that was on offer in a way his open-throat pirate shirt never could. It softened him, hid all his hard edges, and Stiles knew without a doubt that if they’d met in a coffee shop with Peter looking like this and smiling that disarming smile that he’d have been in love.

His stomach felt unsettled before they’d even started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, wait, this is the chapter with the bathrooms. I knew one of them tackled bathrooms.
> 
> Am I posting faster than the schedule I said I would? Yes. Because I am impatient and now there's only two chapters with my beta so I'm optimistic that I'll have them in hand when we get there.


	4. Chapter 4

When Stiles planned for the day he’d put a lot of thought into what food to make. For an ordinary date he’d make something impressive, creamy lemon chicken maybe, or better yet they’d go out to eat. The mediteranean place nearby was impressive, and cheap. The kissing bridge nearby was free. He had ways of showing someone they were special.

This wasn’t a normal date, though.

He was trying, as hard as he could, not to actively dislike Peter because he was right, in a lot of ways. They had to find a way to spend time together even if it never turned romantic, if only for the legal repercussions. It was difficult, though, with almost a whole quarter of petty bullying from the Professor pressing on his mind, and ultimately he’d decided on tuna fish sandwiches and sour cream and onion potato chips. Low rent cuisine, that guaranteed any kiss he tried to get out of Stiles would be miserable at best.

Now, though, watching him sprawl out on their couch like it was just as good as the leather behemoth he had at home and answer every one of Scott’s questions with uncharacteristic patience, Stiles couldn’t keep staring at those goddamn sandwiches. Maybe, if he really got Scott going about SQL, he could slip out unnoticed and buy some baked ziti from the corner deli to replace them.

His head jerked up when he heard his name.

“How about you, Stiles? You free on Saturday?” Peter asked, a spark behind his eyes.

“What? Um, yeah I think so.”

“Then you can come too. Talia will love seeing you.”

“Taliaaaaaa…?” he frowned.

“Hale. Dearest baby sister of mine, and a right pain in the ass.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, “Meeting the family already? You that confident in our blossoming relationship?”

Between them on the futon Scott snorted, and pitched forward to retrieve his own sandwich.

“He’s got the confidence written on his arm, man.”

Peter smiled at him, something soft and indulgent that Stiles had never seen on his face before, and he was struck with a sudden spike of jealousy, although for what he didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine it was genuine.

“You put a lot of stock in the words, then.”

“Definitely,” Scott nodded, and put a hand up to cover his full mouth, “It’s the one thing destined to turn out exactly how it’s meant to.”

“What are yours, then?” he asked.

Scott set the sandwich on his knee and rolled up the sleeve of his dress shirt, all the way past the elbow. In cloudy, mottled gray, and a narrow slanting cursive, it read:

**“Well, I can’t picture you having any ulterior motive so I guess we’ll have to let you in.”**

Peter snorted and Stiles smiled a little too, no matter how many times he’d seen it. Maybe he was cynical, but at least he knew for certain that whoever Scott was going to end up with would appreciate him for the ray of sunshine he was.

“I like it,” Peter said, “Very affirming, I imagine.”

“You could say that. But there’s so many situations it could fit in, that I have basically no direction.”

“Mmm, I suppose that’s true. I at least knew not to change careers anytime soon.”

Stiles cocked his head at that. He had a hard time imagining Peter as anything other than Lord High Commander of Telling You You’re Wrong.

“Did you ever want to?”

“God yes,” Peter rolled his head back onto his shoulders the the very thought of it took some of his tension away, “If I have to go through one more paper written by some wide-eyed jackass who uses the Bible as their only source I’m going to switch to a profanity based grading system. And there’s at least one _every semester_.”

They laughed, something light and yet disdainful, and then Peter inclined his head towards Stiles in deference.

“I will say, your work so far this year has been solid. Scattered, no doubt, but cogent and that’s more than I usually get.”

“What do you want to do then?” Scott asked, and Peter’s smile turned feral.

“Employment and labor law.”

Stiles glanced at Scott and back again.

“The...what?”

“Basically I would go around yelling at corporate interests for breaking the law. Maybe attack their revenue streams individually or make their dirt public. Maybe work for a trade union. I’ve seen some members of my family do despicable things, and while I trust my sister at the helm now, I know cousin Jean is licking her chops to take over if Talia so much as coughs wrong.”

He went back to examining the food, and he and Scott fell back into chatter about worker's rights. Stiles watched Peter as he spoke, the way his head bobbed with each point, and the sneer he was so familiar with would turn playful. He made it sound like sparring, like fun, to argue, and Stiles couldn't say he disagreed, even if had had no interest in the legal field beyond filling prerequisites of his criminology major. There was a certain shine to Peter turning his cynicism in a productive direction.

When they were finished eating, Stiles brushed his hands off on his pants and put on his actual date face. Well, date with a chaperone. Whatever.

“So what did you feel like doing today, Professor Hale?” he rolled his eyes at that but Stiles kept going, “We’ve got games and movies, or Scott has a book of conversation starters he won in a raffle.”

“Best gift ever,” Scott cut in.

Peter made a show of considering his options, studying the small tv perched on top of an ikea bookshelf on the opposite wall. Finally he shrugged and scooped up a handful of chips.

“Got any card games?”

“Oh, buddy,” Stiles grinned, “You better be ready.”

* * *

 

Cards Against Humanity was the sort of thing you only trotted out when you wanted to scandalize older relatives or when there was alcohol being passed around. By the third round, however, Peter was sitting on the majority of the black cards they’d awarded, an easy smirk on his face and steadfastly refusing to be scandalized, and Stiles had given up and sent Scott into the kitchen for the wine they’d set out to “rest”.

Whatever that meant.

He fished a new card from the pile and laid it face up on the table, voice lifted so Scott could hear even around the corner.

“During sex I like to think about…blank.”

Peter slapped a card down on the coffee table immediately, like he’d been waiting for this question to come up, and Scott tottered back in with a few full mugs and a frown in his eyes.

“None of mine make any sense I don’t think.”

“Sometimes that’s half the fun,” Stiles shrugged, “My Obama card from last turn would’ve worked awesome here.”

After a few seconds of sorting and rearranging he picked one near the middle and Stiles closed his eyes for the mandatory “shuffle two cards in a rough attempt to avoid bias”. Once they were pressed into his hands he flipped over the top one and read it out loud.

“During sex I like to think about tentacle porn. Okay, and…” he flipped the second one and a laugh escaped before he could stop it, “Oh my god. During sex I like to think about letting everyone down. Goddamit, that wins it.”

Predictably, Peter raised his hand and Stiles handed over the card with a roll of his eyes.

“Dude, you are too old to be good at this game,” Scott groaned, and then ducked his head a little when he realized what he’d said.

Peter took it in stride, slugging back a mouthful of wine and then showing his purple-stained teeth, “Excuse fucking you, my generation invented tentacle porn.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles kicked at his leg under both of Scott’s, mostly scraping his bare toes against the rug in the process, “Take your turn you cheating jackass.”

“Why cheat when you give me preferential treatment?”

They each sorted through their piles, the air already feeling looser as each question chipped away more of the ice. It wasn’t exactly like he’d thought Peter didn’t have a sense of humor—he was pretty sure half his assignments were created with the sole purpose of cackling madly over the results—but he’d never been exposed to it before. Not firsthand. He hadn’t known just how childish it was, had no way of anticipating the raw glee he would show when the “firm buttocks” card had come up. When he picked a black card from the pile and skimmed it he actually _giggled_ , a sound Stiles would’ve been pretty sure he was incapable of making even a week ago.

Peter shot a conspiratorial look at Scott, and then cleared his throat.

“I drink to forget, blank.”

Stiles scanned the cards in his hand, looking for anything that wasn’t a public figure that he could use. Angela Merkel would be funny there, sure, but it wasn’t a winner and he wanted to win at least once today. Finally, near the back, he found “drinking alone” and shrugged to himself. Good as he was going to get.

When Peter had his two answers in hand he pulled the top one off, chesire grin mirrored on Scott’s face and waited for a beat until Stiles was taking a pull from his mug of wine.

“I drink to forget my relationship status.”

He snorted, and then gagged, trying desperately to clear his throat and laugh at the same time. Scott beat against his back, laughing too, and he hung his head between his knees while he struggled to get himself back under control.

“Self-burn,” he finally managed, “Wouldn’t think you’d have had it in you.”

Peter lifted a shoulder, but he kept on grinning, “I don’t know why you keep expecting me to be Mr Darcy.”

“Well,” he tilted his head back and forth, “You are possessing of a great fortune.”

“And yet I have no interest in a wife.”

Scott snatched the black card out of Peter’s hand, tucking it away with the one other he’d won by that point.

“You guys are the weirdest flirters ever.”

“Am not!”

“Sure, okay.”

“I’m not flirting!” he tossed a card at his friend’s head, only to have it swirl in an ineffectual arc and land on his lap.

“I’ve seen you around Lydia and Danny, dude. And on that note, I’m feeling like I want to leave.”

He hefted himself to his feet and headed for the hallway, a chasm of futon left unoccupied now and Stiles’ barrier gone. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch Peter’s knee where he had it tucked up on the seat and his body turned sideways. If he wanted he could tip sideways and land his head on Peter’s thigh.

He didn’t really know what he wanted.

“Let me know when you’re done having mean foreplay or whatever,” he called, and ducked around the corner.

“So you know,” Peter offered after a moment, eyes firmly glue to the cards in his hands now, “The combativeness doesn’t actually translate into the bedroom, at least not on my end. I prefer fancy candles and lingerie and rock ballads, personally.”

“You…” Stiles felt his brow pull down, a little bit shocked at the subject change but mostly shocked at the contents. It was hard to picture, with all of his usual swagger, especially since the only ‘rock ballad’ Stiles could come up with was [Drops of Jupiter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Xf-Lesrkuc), “I guess that makes sense. Every big candle I’ve seen in the store is always like thirty dollars, nobody’s rich enough for fancy candles.”

“Can’t put a price on romance, kid.”

Stiles snorted, and kicked a foot out, this time reaching his target without any extra legs in the way.

“Yes you can, old man. Five bucks for wine and ten bucks for condoms.”

Peter levelled him with a flat look, “Charming.”

Stiles hummed and busied himself gathering the cards, sliding them all back  into the box. He hadn’t thought about it yet, not really, too caught up in his own resentments, but he was thinking about it now: what exactly were their boundaries here? Because no matter what either of them said it wasn’t really like dating. They was no casual period, no stringless interaction. Even if he decided to break things off they would always be tied together. And in that mess of ties and expectations, he didn’t really know which aspect of Peter to tackle first, whether it was his contrary personality or the thing with school, or the physical aspect of their bond. They wouldn’t exactly be expected to consummate in front of a judge, but there was a certain yearning for the other inherent to the spell and Stiles felt it as they sat together, quietly tidying their respective corners and not talking about it, like a cat that wound it’s way around the both of them in tightening circles.

When Lydia met her soulmate, back in high school, she’d drug Aiden off to an unused closet without another word, before they’d even exchanged names let alone gotten to know one another. Could he do that? Should he?

It would certainly get them familiar with one another.

“I don’t have any expectations,” Peter offered, and Stiles thought that was probably for the best even as he felt a little sad at the prospect of letting the moment pass, “I just want you to have all the information. I want us to know everything we need to about one another.”

Stiles cleared his throat, suddenly full with some unnamed emotion, “Me too. And, uh, me too. About the candles.”

When he looked up Peter looked pleased, although he took the first chance to stand with a stack of plates and step past Stiles towards the kitchen.

“Two shakes,” he said, and then Stiles was alone again with his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

The barbecue at the Hale house was three days before Thanksgiving and two before Babcia would be showing up in Beacon Hills in all her glory, and Stiles’ head felt overfull with it all before him.

Peter had agreed to an extenstion on the term paper (without much guilting on Stiles’ part, to his credit) but even still he had to work on it a little if he didn’t want to be totally overwhelmed when class resumed, and that was on top of coordinating the menu and airport pickup with his dad and handling whatever crisis Scott was having at the moment about meeting his apparent idols and processing his own feelings on the seemingly everpresent Peter Hale.

It all took a lot of mental energy, was the issue. So the day before they were set to head out into the Preserve he slipped out of the apartment headed for a little coffee shop under the overpass where he knew the owner.

Carlov nodded when he walked in, all serious eyes over a ridiculous mustache, and set about making his usual drink and setting it by the pickup counter. This place was along his usual route to work, and Allison refused to go anywhere but Starbucks, so he’d set up a running tab and adopted it as his oasis from their romantic almost-bliss when the circumstances demanded. He even had a favorite table, tucked by the swinging door to the back and the vaccuum, out of sight of the front doors and boasting a fluffy ripped armchair that he could sink boneless into and decompress.

He whiled away the whole morning like that, possibly more time than he could really afford to lose, just reading a sci fi novel and sipping at an iced coffee as it slowly melted and grew more and more watered down.

Just as the space captain had reached his darkest hour, dangling as he was over the open incinerator doors, the chime near the front of the shop rang out to announce a new customer and he glanced away from his page on instinct.

There, in a plaid coat and shaking out a matching plaid umbrella, stood a woman in her early sixties, maybe, with snow white hair. She looked regal, and maybe a little stuffy, like she could be the governess in an old British program, and Stiles watched with a certain fondness as she strode for the counter with a poise that he couldn’t ever hope to emulate.

Carlov nodded at her same as he did everyone and asked, “What’ll it be today, ma’am?”

She barely faltered, even as Stiles saw her arm and face shift in a wince, replying, “Well, I set out to get a nice hot espresso, but it’s so blustery out this afternoon I don’t think there could be one hot enough.”

Carlov’s eyes shot wide and he pulled his arm back in much the same way, as her face finally dawned in recognition and she clawed her coat off her shoulders to reveal the skin of her left arm. Black letters showed clearly, but it would seem that wasn’t normal for her, and her head shot back up to stare at Carlov’s arm where his uniform shirt left the writing exposed as well.

“I was beginning to think you’d never come,” she said, voice faint but eyes sparkling, like she was about to start crying.

“I hate coffee,” Carlov said, “but I’ve run this place for twelve years. _Of course_ I was coming.”

And then he’d rounded the corner and scooped her up in his arms, face pressed into her neck like it belonged, and Stiles was still there, sitting in the back corner where he could watch it all occur like a voyeur, and he felt a little sick. His book dangled between the ends of his fingers, wholly forgotten, and he watched the two stumble, arms still looped together, for the couch by the little electric fireplace, babbling over one another to offer as much personal information as they could right away.

It was everything Stiles had wanted out of his own soulmate meeting, and yet he was stuck on one particular sentence.

_“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”_

Because as irritating as the Scott and Allison quandry was from the outside, he had never doubted that they’d find their actual soulmates someday. He’d never doubted he’d find his. The doubts and confusion and self pity had only really started when he’d stood in front of Peter a couple weeks ago in that classroom and rejected the idea of him wholesale, and now, watching someone else get everything they wanted out of it he was certain he was going to throw up.

Because Peter had had enough time to start to doubt. Peter had spent decades—less than this woman, sure, but a lot more than Stiles—waiting around. There was a very real chance Peter had been resigned to Stiles just never coming.

Because when he did come, they hadn’t fallen into one another’s arms, or sat by a fire and talked about their pets and favorite movies.

That was never in Peter’s cards, their meeting was never destined to be a positive memory. It would be ugly forever, even if they managed to reconcile now. For the first time Stiles started to feel like maybe he wasn’t the only one wondering if the universe had judged him and decided this was the best he deserved.

* * *

 

“Oh my god, Stiles, what if someone is allergic to nuts?!”

Stiles pried the casserole dish from Scott’s hands and set it pointedly in the footwell of the car.

“Then they will read the laminated ingredient list you printed out and taped to the side. Like a crazy person. Because you are being a crazy person right now.”

Scott wrung his hands together and stared at the dish, still vibrating with unexpended energy, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like he was genuinely thinking of running back inside to make something else.

“But what if they _don’t_? The card’s kind of small, and—”

“Scott. It will be okay. People with allergies usually bring their own food to potlucks anyway, and none of them go around putting mystery food in their mouths, now will you please get in the car so we can fucking go already?”

He let out a breath, slow and steady, and scrunched his eyes close.

“Okay. Okay, let’s go,” he said, and then hesitated before adding, “You drive.”

“That’s probably wise,” Stiles said, and circled the car toward the driver’s side, keys already in hand.

The house in the Preserve was a good thirty minutes from their apartment, according to GPS, which was just enough time for Scott to work himself up into a froth. Occasionally, he would offer a comment about this or that Hale or this or that computer system, but mostly his nervousness manifested in him adjusting and readjusting the saran wrap over his cranberry walnut chicken salad, twisting the corners into tight little bundles with the tips of his fingers. He’d pulled the recipe off Pinterest, deeming his mother’s recipe for carnitas “too unhealthy” because “you know most of them run marathons, it’s a family event, they do this big charity cancer run every year” and on and on it went.

The closer they got the more Stiles was sure that he hadn’t been this into the Hales before last week. He’d mentioned some of the technologies, sure, the subject of sustainable agriculture was well worn. Stiles knew he’d heard each individual feature praised before, at least in broad terms. But Scott had never mentioned the Hales by name or the apparently encylopedic knowledge he had about them.

“So…” Stiles said, cutting off a ramble about low flying drones and the ceaseless tap-tap-tapping of Scott’s heel against the floor mats as he bounced his leg, “why haven’t I heard about these guys before? You seem like you’re a few minutes away from making out with a poster of the CEO, you’ve never acted this way before.”

Scott’s nose wrinkled, not dissimilar to a puppy about to sneeze, and he scowled.

“Ew, no, not _Talia_. I just—”

“Right,” Stiles narrowed his eyes at Scott as best he could without taking his gaze off the road, “but it is someone specific.”

“No!” he said and then hemmed back a little, turning his face towards the window, “I just think the work they’re doing is impressive. And I think it’d be cool to work there after working for the stupid Argents for a year.”

“One of those stupid Argents is your girlfriend,” Stiles pointed out, although he was fully aware that line of conversation would go nowhere.

“It’s just…ugh…” he groaned, releasing the cling wrap at least to scrub a hand along his neck. He still wouldn’t face Stiles head on, “Remember the tequila story? That drunk driving guy?”

Stiles nodded, and clicked on his blinker to turn onto the paved access road.

“That’s Derek. His whole branch of the family his cool, his mom Talia and sisters Laura and Cora. They’re really working to take the corporate evil out of the place. Derek, though, it’s more…personal. He was always sort of a rich kid douche and then last summer this article comes out and I guess someone from a rival company tried to use him to get into their R&D department. Steal some company secrets. They got into a lot of trouble together, sneaking onto the property and into empty offices at night, test driving some of the tech, and once it was over and she’d been caught out he said it showed him a lot about the ugly side of business, the reason he’d stayed out in the first place. But it also showed him what his family could do, what they _were_ doing. Said it was like peeking into the future. And he wanted to be a part of that, so he just jumped right in.”

“Who was the lady? Or dude, I guess.”

Scott shrugged, “Didn’t say. I guess he thought she had a right to privacy or something, I don’t know.”

Stiles snorted.

“More than I would’ve given her.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed and then turned back finally to catch Stiles’ eye, “I think it’s just that I wish I had that same opportunity. Or maybe that same drive. He’s got a much bigger cushion if he fails, no doubt, but he can still fail and he’s still doing it. Still taking risks and taking the world by the dick, you know?”

That startled a bark of laughter out of Stiles and he shoved Scott’s shoulder so he knocked into the door. They drove on after that, a little bit of the tension eased, and followed the directions given by the soothing voice of the maps robot on Scott’s phone until the road started to wind down the side of a hill. It wasn’t quite a ravine, but Stiles could tell it came close, turning in tight little switchbacks the whole way down to a clearing at the bottom. When they came to the final corner, a two story house with rows of tiny glass windows came into view, sparkling in the noontime sun. It was impressive, he thought, and polished, but he’d expected more from the infamous family, if he was honest.

And then they took the final turn and Stiles stared from behind his windshield.

The glass house, it would seem, was a garage, or maybe a workshop. The main building sat behind it, sprawled across the hillside like a great beast lazing in the sun, individual wings curling in on themselves and doubling back. Behind them, a few slanted roofs peeked up into view, indicating even more structures further in, and then the trees took over, massive evergreens buffeting the property in, keeping it cossetted and private, away from any prying eyes.

When he parked by a row of hosta bushes in the driveway he just sat for a moment, taking in all the little details of the front porch and tiled walkway, and Scott sat silent beside him.

“Was this place in that article?”

“Uh…no. It was not.”

The front door—impractically large and made of dark wood with thin stained glass windows around eye level—swung wide after a few minutes, and then there was Peter, dressed in a pullover and khakis and cradling a crystal wine glass. His smirk was a little too wide for Stiles’ liking, like he was anticipating their awe, and he screwed down his expression in response, smoothed out to something barely interested. He climbed out and rounded the hood to help Scott, murmuring “be cool” into his ear and steadying the casserole dish in his hands, and then they were walking into probably the most expensive house they’d ever been in. As he passed, and barely resisted sticking his tongue out in Peter’s direction, he noticed the stained glass of the windows again, or rather he noticed the bottle glass. The ridges of the bottom of a beer bottle stood out in a few places, neatly arranged in a rough mottling of circles for the various sizes.

“Welcome younglings, most everyone is out back. I’ll introduce you around,” Peter said, and then swanned down the hallway from the door.

“I, uh…” Scott started, and then cleared his throat and tried again, “I made chicken salad. But um—”

“Disgusting. Derek and Laura will love it. Here, put it over there with the rest,” he said as they stepped through a doorway and into a huge cook’s kitchen. Two stoves and three ovens adorned one wall, two dishwashers along the other, and the space in between was lined in white glittering countertops and pale wood cabinets. On the kitchen island sat a host of dishes in a carnival of colors, all wrapped crappily in foil. None of them, Stiles was surprised to see, appeared storebought.

To their right the sliding glass door opened, letting in sounds of laughter and up tempo pop music, and two dark haired people closer to Scott and Stiles’ age slipped in and pulled it closed. The taller of the two, a woman with broad shoulders and muscled arms, flitted over to the counter on bare feet and grabbed a samosa off one of the trays.

“God, family things are always a grease pile,” she said, before looking up and spotting the new guests, “Well, hey there. Laura Hale, you two must be Peter’s protoges or whatever.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at Peter, who lifted a shoulder almost imperceptably, and then grinned and offered a hand.

“Exactly right.”

She shook it and waved a hand at the man behind her, “This is Derek Hale, resident troublemaker. Peter hasn’t told me either of your names.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter laughed, “This is Stiles, from the college, and his roommate Scott. Scott works for the Argents, but today’s visit is informal, just showing him how much better we are than his bosses.”

When Stiles sent a glance over his shoulder Scott was blushing, and frozen, his eyes locked on Derek, who must be the same one that had been twisting him up in knots for days. He could see why, Derek had a sharp face and quick eyes, and dark black hair that flew away from his head in individual spikes like he hadn’t spent any time getting ready.

He looked every bit the fearless rogue Scott was probably hoping for, and his eyes were locked on Scott as well, a smirk playing over his face.

“Well, I can’t picture you having any ulterior motive so I guess we’ll have to let you in.”

“Oh my god, it’s you,” Scott breathed, and his gaze shot down to Derek’s arm. A repeat performance of the scene in the coffee shop the day before played out, both wincing at the burn on their forearms, both clawing at their clothes, both staring at the words now a stark black against their skin. It stood out more on Derek’s than Scott’s, Stiles noticed, but he lost his view as Derek rushed forward and took the dish from Scott’s hands, keeping one hand on his bicep and crowding into his space.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Scott kept repeating, like it might help him process, and Laura looked close to shrieking, a light whine coming out of her throat as she stared. Stiles’ hand went instinctively to his own arm, covered as it was under a long sleeved henley, and he watched his best friend and his soulmate hustle off into a side room, maybe a den, each of them pushing closer into one another’s space.

“I need to tell mom, holy shit. Someone lock that door, the family is going to want to storm in, but I have to tell mom,” Laura babbled, and shot for the back door, suddenly a flurry of motion now that they were out of sight. Peter hummed and crossed the kitchen, repeating the command to Derek and Scott and then closing the door.

When he turned back to Stiles, one shoulder bracing against the wall, his smile was wet and fragile.

“Hurts to see other people happy, doesn’t it?”

Stiles ran his fingers down his own words again, this time with the tips of his nails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah! Side romance! I super didn't intend for it to happen when I outlined this story, and then it just did, and when we're talking about canon Scott and Derek there's no way they'd ever be together, but that doesn't stop the heart boner I have for the two of them. I want them together for always, and I feel like literally the only person in the world who does.
> 
> Also, I think it's tied into the fact that any time Stiles is paired with someone else, my brain demands some kind of concrete pairing for Derek. I can't stand steter/stalia/stydia fics where Derek is just floating in the wind with no Stiles and no anyone else.
> 
> It is 1:00 in the morning and my 2 year old is still awake. Fuck me, seriously.


	6. Chapter 6

There were more Hales on their back deck than Stiles could’ve ever anticipated. He knew about a couple of them, mostly Peter’s immediate family, but there were over forty people milling around, almost all of them dark-headed and square-jawed, the women tall and the men short, with handsome features that made him feel even more awkward and gangly than ever. Peter’s blond hair stood out, but even despite that you could see the Hale genes in him.

He’d dried his eyes in under a minute, set his jaw and rolled his neck out, and then gone to greet his sister, an imposing woman with her hair cropped close to her head and slicked down. The smile stretching her face seemed foreign, too gentle for the power she held in her movements, and Stiles felt truly that he would agree to anything she asked him to do.

Probably, he mused, that came as a benefit in her line of work.

Scott had reemerged, shirt sitting just a little oddly around his shoulders and his eyes wide and flustered, and he’d kept an arm linked with either Derek or Stiles from then on out, clearly happy but wholly overwhelmed, and they moved in a hard like that, Peter, Stiles, Scott, and Derek, through each group of cousins.

Cousin Jean—not Peter’s favorite relative if the way he bristled was any indication—narrowed in on them immediately, although Stiles didn’t learn her name until after the first hour when she finally got sick of observing them from the edges. She folded herself into Peter’s other side, reaching up to flick an ear and then laughed when he flinched away, a companionable air to the way she shouldered into their group. She offered a hand to Derek first, then Scott, lavish in her congratulations, and then bore her eyes into Stiles.

“So how do you know Peter?”

“College,” Stiles offered, remembering Peter’s protoge excuse earlier, “He teaches a program I’m interested in.”

“You want to be a lawyer?” she lifted an eyebrow and gestured at her chest with her glass, “You know, I have a history in contract law, if you wanted that persepctive as well.”

Stiles huffed a laugh before he could stop himself, “God, no, never.”

Peter smiled at him but it was thin, and within a moment he saw why. Cousin Jean rocked back on her heels and echoed his laugh, although much sharper, and turned away from Stiles completely.

“So not that kind of protoge then? Didn’t think the sugar daddy thing was your style but he is cute, I gotta say.”

“Excuse me?” Stiles squawked, but he’d been dismissed and Jean didn’t show any signs of registering his complaint.

“Jeannette,” Peter began, “That’s hardly—”

“You know you scared the shit out of me, right? Some new blood that you’re ‘personally training’,” she crooked her fingers into air quotes, “and who’s serious enough to introduce to the family. Jesus, Peter. I thought you were working with some new developer.”

And, well, Stiles had never been a patient man. He could make his schemes with the best of them, but he was prone more than most to the passion of the moment. Sometimes it was satisfying, knowing he’d said his piece, most times even, but just as often it had gotten him in trouble and this time was no exception.

He moved himself bodily in between Jean and Peter and put a hand up to urge her back.

“You know, I don’t appreciate that kind of shit from the best of people, and you aren’t the best of people. He’s my soulmate, not my john, and you should be worried if you think any part of your actions today have been sneaky. You’re store brand villainy, at best.”

Jean reared back, a deep scowl crossing her face, before finding her footing again, alarmingly quick. She didn’t respond to him, again, just ducked her hed around his shoulder and shouted in the direction of the pool.

“Hey, Mal! Could you come here for a second!”

Peter braced a hand against Stiles' shoulder, as if trying to pull him back and bail them both out, but Stiles didn’t go, and Derek reached across to try and intervene as well.

“Jean, don’t be a shit,” he said, eyes flitting from Stiles to Peter like he was trying to figure out which parts of their story were true and which were lies.

Then, from behind their little circle, a girl with sandy brown hair stepped up, still dripping and stinking of chlorine, and Stiles felt his brian desperately try to adjust tracks.

“ _Malia?_ ” he glanced at Scott as if for confirmation, who had his head cocked like a dog, “What are you doing here?”

Malia rolled her eyes and then her whole head and yeah, that was her, the girl he’d dormed with his freshman year. Maybe not his best friend, or even that close a friend, but certainly a sattelite in their social group, and seriously, how did he keep stumbling into Hales? Something else about the motion pushed at the back of his mind, familiar but undefined, and he scanned her face trying to puzzle it out.

“This is my family, Stilinski, what are _you_ doing here?” she looked up over his shoulder and tipped her head up in acknowledgement, “Oh, right, you must be the one dad’s tutoring.”

“Dad?” he turned as well, finding only Peter, who had his eyes on Malia and a hunted expression, shoulders bowed in defensively like he was expecting to come to blows, but not intending to defend himself.

“I figured, you know, if you’re soulmates you should meet your new stepdaughter, right?” Jean piped up from where she stood, now on the fringes ready to break away whenever the match she’d thrown into a powder keg finally caught, “Malia, this is you father’s _beloved_.”

Malia scowled at Jean, but her gaze strayed back, skittering over each member of the group before settling on her father again.

Stiles felt like his head was head was underwater, each voice dim as he zeroed in on Peter’s face.

“Dad? But he’s—”

“Well, it’s not like I chose him,” he snapped, without much fire to fuel his irritation, “The universe did, it was—my arm, and I just—”

“Right,” Stiles said, “You didn’t choose me. I didn’t choose you either. Excuse me.”

He stepped out of the group and passed his drink off to Jean, taking a modicum of satisfaction when it sloshed over the rim of the glass and onto her shirt.

Good. Fuck her.

He was in the kitchen and almost to the hall when Peter caught up to him, shouting his name like it could summon Stiles back to him and hooking an arm around his waist. That, more than anything, brought him back to himself, that point of contact like he was trapping him there, and with it came all his collected anger from the past few weeks.

“WHAT? Peter, what?! What could you possibly want from me?”

“Stiles,” he said, and now his voice was quiet. Placating, “I do choose you , I just—”

“As _what_ , Peter? As a an obligation? Or a secret? Were you going to put me up in a little house, far away from everyone, and just pretend you go on a lot of _work trips_? What was your plan for fitting me in around your wife?!”

Peter looked like he’d been stricken, face going slack, but he held tight around Stiles’ middle, and his breath brushed across Stiles skin, hot and scared.

“Malia isn’t my wife, what are you—?”

“Malia’s mom, you jackass,” and Stiles swatted as his shoulder as hard as he could, not nearly hard enough.

“Caroline. I didn’t tell you about Caroline.”

“No, you didn’t tell me about Caroline, and I hardly think it was a fucking mistake.”

Behind him, a few of the Hales had filed in, although Talia was standing in the doorway fending off most of them. Laura had a hand pressed to her mouth and Scott looked ready to come pry them apart if necessary.

“Well it’s not like I didn’t try!”

“Try?! You never bothered to try with me—”

“You absolute _child!_ ” Peter swore and released Stile’s middle, and when he stepped back he pushed his hands through his hair and held on, “You’re a child, you know that? You blew the secret at the lightest prodding from Jean, you blew up over this like you’ve never heard of divorce, you blew up at me when we got our marks, you just think you’re the smartest one in every fucking room!”

Stiles felt tears prick at the back of his eyes, threatening to overwhelm him and pull him down, and he knew he couldn’t cry in front of Peter, crying was losing, so he put all his energy into lashing out instead.

“Fine, so you’re divorced, I still deserve to know when you have a kid, especially when neither I nor her are children. If we’re getting to know one another, talking about being together, I deserve to know that. This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about Peter!”

“Oh, please, you were never going to stick around that long,” Peter sneered, and he tucked his arms over his stomach like it was hurting him, “You’ve been ready to leave since we first spoke. I tried talking about it, and then when you refused I tried going slow, but any time I showed even the slightest hint of uncertainty or fondness or fucking anything real you’d get this look like you were thinking about diving out the window. I have _tried_ but you despise every part of me, so excuse me for not wanting to expose my daughter to that.”

The tears came anyway, for Stiles, although he was losing the thread of his anger, each new word out of his mouth a surprise as he was pulled back and forth on unsteady ground.

“I don’t hate you, Peter—”

But Peter cut him off.

“And you know, I shouldn’t have exposed myself to it either. I was better alone.”

He pushed past Stiles into the hall and hooked a right turn deeper into the house. In front of him, Scott and Derek ducked their heads together, sharing something between them, and then Derek followed his uncle and Scott came to hold Stiles’ arms where he realized they’d been shaking. Talia clapped twice, and he heard her stern voice ring out to redirect the people still gawking, but he didn’t pay attention, letting Scott steer him into the den he’d used earlier.

They sunk down onto a loveseat, and Scott pulled Stiles’ head to rest on his shoulder.

* * *

 

They didn’t stay for the end of the party, even after Stiles had calmed down. It was too much, too many questions, too many people who had latched onto the word soulmate like a dog after a hare, and Stiles couldn’t face it. Nor was it fair to Scott.

Instead, they slunk out a side door to the foyer, where Talia was waiting with their coats and half-empty glass dish, and Stiles nodded briefly in an attempt to thank her, or maybe apologize. Anything, really, as long as he didn’t have to use his voic quite yet, or pull together a complete sentence. The fight had left him feeling scooping out and scraped clean, hollow in a way no one was ever meant to be, and he didn’t have it in him yet.

She nodded back, and then caught his eye all the same, ducking her head to keep it. When she spoke, the tenor of her voice pinned him in place.

“I’m not taking sides, because I know how profound a soulbond is, and I trust that you two are meant to be together. But I will tell you that he believes in the soulbond exactly as much as I do, maybe more. Whatever you are doubting, don’t doubt his sincerity.”

Stiles nodded again and she clapped him on the shoulder. When she was gone he and Scott headed outside, the air cold now as the sun dipped under the horizon, always so early in November, and climbed into the Jeep.

“Did you get Derek’s number?” Stiles asked, from the passenger seat. The twisted corners of the plastic wrap, now on his own lap, found their way into his fingers, and he felt at least a little comfort in the symmetry of it.

“Yeah,” Scott said faintly, coaxing the engine to life, and then, “You shouldn’t throw this away, man. This is the one thing in our lives that comes with a guarantee, don’t lose that over one fight.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like the road there is easy,” Stiles hummed, “After all, now you get to go home and break up with an Argent.”

Scott paled and muttered a “fuck” before starting up the steep driveway to take them back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Stiles' half of the conflict has been, on the surface, an overreaction, but this chapter and next chapter together will hopefully shed light. So hang in there.
> 
> I don't feel like enough Steter acknowledges Malia. Like, if you just write her out of your universe, cool. But if she's there, and her dad is dating someone her age....that's something that deserves at least a brief conversation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold my horrific attempt at Polish, and then how I immediately cop out of including Polish!

Babcia Stilinski was not a young woman. She’d had her own children later in life, pasy thirty, and then John had followed suit, meaning by the time Stiles graduated high school she was already pushing eighty years old. Every conversation with her came with a vague undercurrent of finality, like any day could be the last day even when she was in perfect health, and Stiles wasn’t sure exactly how he would be around her once she was here, in person.

The day before Thanksgiving, she stepped out of airport security with her cane in hand, one arm smacking the TSA agent attempting to assist her, and her eyes danced along the crowd to find John and Stiles. When she did, she made a beeline, wheeled suitcase bumping along behind her, and practically fell into a hug that encompassed both men tightly.

“O mój boże, tak dobrze cię widzieć,” she said, and her voice wavered where she was pressed against the Sheriff’s shoulder.

“Ciebie też, mamo,” the Sheriff said, and then she was pushing off, swiping at her face with the loose open sleeves of her shawl.

“No more. English, for the boy,” she reached up and swiped at John’s face too, “And no more crying, you’ll embarass me!”

“Hey Babcia,” Stiles laughed, and she turned her bright face on him.

“Hello, Mieczysław. So big now, and tall! You buy me a coffee,” she said, and turned on her heel, leading him by the hand. The Sheriff smiled and grabbed her now abandoned suitcase, trailing after the two of them dutifully.

When they got to the Starbucks, Stiles had to dig around in his pockets for his wallet, and he chattered away in the meantime about all the innocuous parts of his vacation so far. Babcia took a few things from his hands to help out—his kindle, a lighter, a pack of gum—before he finally came up with the battered leather billfold with the painted on Nightwing logo. He pried his debit card free and passed it to the barista, who huffedturned to take back his things, only to find his Babcia scrolling through his phone like she’d been invited, hmming and uh-huhing as she went.

“Tell me, which one is your soulmate, Mieczysław. This says you only call Scott. It’s not Scott, right?”

His throat dropped into the bottom of his gut and he snatched the phone back, managing only a chastizing “Babcia!”

“What? You never tell me anything, I had to hear from your father.”

He swung his head to the side and his father ducked his head with a guilty smile.

“You don’t have much of a sense of modesty, son. I saw the color change a week ago, I just figured you’d tell me when it was a little less new,” he shrugged, and then pointed to indicate where the coffee and card were being pushed across the counter. Stiles snatched them both up, and ushered the group to a side table with a glower on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Babcia asks, “You should be happy.”

“Should be,” he grumlbed, and then sighed and pushed the cup in her direction, “You just startled me. It was meant to be a secret for longer. Maybe forever.”

The Sheriff’s eyebrows crept towards his hairline but he didn’t push, and Stiles knew he was going to tell anyway.

“So, it’s kind of complicated and I need you not to get how you get,” he started and then winced at the unimpressed glare his father offered in reply. Babcia just nodded, sollemn, so he pushed on, “He’s one of my professors. Which we’re working to uncomplicate, but also he…has a daughter. Who’s my age. And an ex-wife, and this whole life already, and on top of it all we really, really don’t get along.”

Babcia hummed into her coffee cup, “Well, it’s not like he can help any of that.”

“Mama!” the Sheriff scolded, and Stiles echoed a second later.

“Well it’s true!” she said, “You can’t help being a student, can you? Or having a father, or a Babcia. You can’t help that you don’t like him.”

“I…” he huffed a sigh, “I do like him. I think. Or I could. We just don’t get along. It’s just there’s so many hurdles and neither one of us is really _talking_ and now I don’t know how to fix it. We’ve barely talked in days, since I…wasn’t that great to him.”

“The only way to build a house is to build it.”

“I…what?”

The Sheriff took pity, picking Stiles’ phone up off the table and pressing it into his hand.

“She means call him. Invite him over tomorrow. Fix it. Because until you put in the effort you and he won’t ever have anything.”

* * *

 

The doorbell rang at two in the afternoon, when Stiles’ hands were wet with pierogi dough and three things were boiling at once, so it was Babcia to open the door.

It didn’t tip Stiles off right away, although maybe it should have, when she started rattling off rapid-fire Polish, but his ears did prick up at a familiar voice twisted in unfamiliar ways.

“Oczywiście woli pani białe, czerwone wino to porażka,” Peter scoffed from the dining room, and then there he was, standing in the door to a different kitchen but looking much the same as their second date—if you could call it that—except for the tiny old woman urging him forward with a hand on his back as if by force. He had a look on his face like he didn’t know how he’d gotten here or why, but his exit was blocked so he just held up the bottle of chardonnay in his hand, and said “Wine.”

“Wine,” Stiles nodded, and Babcia rolled her eyes.

“Build the house, Stiles. Or I will build it for you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles scowled, but she was already gone, a low chuckle fading into the living room.

“House?”

“I…she knows. My dad does too, I didn’t tell them, but…I guess I’m not very good at keeping secrets.”

Peter scoffed and set the bottle down on the counter, then folded his arms protectively over his chest.

“No, not really. But, well…maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to keep it.”

“No, I get it. I do, your career is important to you. I just…I wish we’d met differently. In better circumstances.”

“If you want to forget about this, you can. Find someone else, someone closer to your age,” he forced a dry laugh, “No kids.”

Stiles couldn’t bear to look at him, at the sour twist of his face, so he turned back the the pierogis, folding them haphazardly and piling them up in the colander beside him.

“I don’t want to make a decision without all the information,” he said, slowly, carefully, “so why don’t you tell me about her. I mean, I know her, but…”

He made a gesture with his hand, not sure what it was supposed to mean, and then dove back into his work.

Peter laughed again, lightly, and hummed in his throat.

“It comes back to you I guess. Or the lack of you. I was twenty-five, everyone in my social group had found their soulmate, and my mother was slipping me pamphlets for ‘late bloomer matchmakers’. Those events filled with forty year old weirdos, which….I guess I am one now. I didn’t…I felt like maybe the spell had failed me, just me, and it was incredibly lonely. Maybe I jumped the gun, but I had no idea I’d have to wait this long and Caroline was there. She was sympathetic. She hadn’t found her soulmate either. So we took comfort in one another.”

“Comfort, or…?” Stiles led, and Peter filled in the blank.

“Sex. Mainly, we were friends too. Then we found out she was pregnant and I knew I wanted kids, I’ve always wanted kids. I still want more, if you’re…well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“So you raised her?”

Peter sighed, “We both did. Split custody, she had the apartment one floor down from me. I didn’t think it would be a problem, assumed that whenever I met you, you’d be okay with it. Maybe old enough to have kids of your own. I didn’t imagine the spell could fail in that way, I thought if you found your soulmate then they must be perfect. Which was proven wrong to me pretty spectacularly. I need you to understand, I wasn’t keeping it from you out of malice, it’s just…I couldn’t risk a bad reaction around my child, not until I was sure the both of us had good intentions.”

“Why wouldn’t I have good intentions?”

He swallowed, jaw working with everything he seemed to be holding back.

“When Malia was eight, Caroline met her soulmate, _Franklin_ , and…he was indignant that she hadn’t waited for him. She was his, and Malia and I were just in the way. Franklin was in our lives for a while, saying those kinds of things around my daughter, until eventually Caroline listened to him.”

Stiles glanced up and found him staring fixedly at his shoes, like he thought they might help him go back in time.

“She lives in Britain now.”

“I…oh my god.”

They shared a silence between them, Stiles’ fingers still moving, making little pouches and pinching them closed, and for the first time it felt like they were really sharing it. After completing maybe ten more, he offered:

“What a pig.”

Peter made a noise of assent, and when Stiles turned to look he’d moved closer, almost to the oven, one hand hovering by the pots of potatoes and cabbage and yams.

"Can I help with anything?”

“Sure, take the yams off if you could, and drain off the water. We want to shock them in the ice water by the fridge.”

He nodded and set to work, and Stiles figured the distraction was safety enough for what he had to say.

“Guess it’s my turn then.”

Peter glanced back over his shoulder.

“For what?”

“For explanations. It took me a while to really figure out why I was so angry. And you were right, a lot of it was childish. If after today you want to break up—if there is anything to break up—I’ll understand. But I do want you to know.”

He reached the end of the dough, but he didn’t move from his place staring at the cutting board in front of him.

“I think on some level, I was hoping the universe would take it back if I just ignored it enough. Because any time I tried to think about a future with you…there was just _so much_. You had everything you needed already: a life and a job and a house and then finally a _daughter_ , and I hadn’t been there for any of it. Being with you wasn’t just about starting a relationship, or dealing with the university, it was everything I didn’t have to offer. There’s this mountain I have to climb just to get to your level and I resented the hell out of that. I hate being just some idiot college kid you’re going to have to settle for.”

He sighed and let his head hang down, his shoulders a straight line.

“It was easy to blame it on the way you teach or the way you live or the way you flirt. I was sitting there inventing ways you weren’t good enough for me, just because I’m pretty sure I’m not good enough for you.”

A warm hand traced its way up his spine, coming to settle on the base of his neck. He felt Peter’s body beside him without looking, caging him in against the counter, and without thinking he leaned into the space left between them.

“I am not settling for you. Stiles, I…I’ve waited decades for you, just you, and now that you’re here? I’m thrilled. Or trying to be, when we aren’t biting at each other.”

“Sure, you’re thrilled for your soulmate, but—”

“No, Stiles, _you_. You forget, we knew each other for months before we ever spoke directly to one another. Essays and class discussions, talking around each other almost every day. I’ve read every word you wrote on your values and your worldview. I’ve watched how you argued with others, full of fire and snark. God, do you know how long I’ve wanted to argue with you, over something meaningless? I…I wasn’t lying, that day in my apartment, when I said I liked you already. I had for a while. You’re already worth so much, just as you are. I’m sorry our circumstances made you doubt that.”

Stiles let out a shuddering breath and lifted his head, meeting Peter’s gaze with hardly an inch between them.

“So. We’re not breaking up?”

“Not if it’s up to me,” he breathed, and then Stiles pushed up into his space and kissed him, close-lipped but deep, moving against him like he wanted to memorize the feeling. Peter reached up and held his chin to keep him from pulling back until they were both breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you how often I edited and re-edited this chapter. In a perfect world I would've followed this relationship over months and months, watched them learn and grow, but given the timeline for the secret santa that just wasn't feasible, and I needed this conflict and resolution to carry a few different emotional notes.
> 
> I hope this answers some of the questions and speculation in the comments, and if it doesn't, let me know. Good criticism is golden.
> 
> One more chapter to go, and a couple more points to resolve in it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So late. This chapter is...so late. I thought I posted it originally and just blissfully ignored it for months and months and months. My apologies.

For all that they defended Peter the day before, once Babcia and John learned of his reconciliation with Stiles they quickly changed their tune. Now that Stiles wasn’t actively sabotaging his love life, it was time to intimidate the boyfriend.

And the Sheriff took to it like he’d been preparing his whole life.

“So, Mr Hale, what expectations do you have regarding my son?”

“I…I intend to build a relationship with him, eventually move on to greater commitments, but—”

“Not your intentions. Your expectations of him. What do you expect him to do for you?”

Peter looked hunted, not even fifteen minutes into the meal, and Stiles was glaring murderously from his place wedged between the table and the wall.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said finally, voice fainter than before.

“Before he met you he planned to complete a criminology degree and work for the police department, possibly the FBI. Your position ties you to one location, and you have established ties keeping you here as well, and a daughter, all things which may conflict with my son’s future.”

“Well, I’m sure we can make it work—”

“And if you can’t? If it doesn’t?”

“I…whatever he wants to do is—”

“What I want to know Peter,” the Sheriff said, and he leaned forward on his elbows, narrowing the distance between them over the table like he was planning on vaulting over it should Peter give the wrong answer, “is what you expect him to sacrifice for you. An older boyfriend with an established career can mean a lot of sacrifices, and a kid his age could be persuaded to make them.”

“Fucking what?!”

“Stiles.” Both his dad and Peter spoke, although each carrying a different tone.

After a moment, Stiles bristling with indignation, Peter taking deep slow breaths, the Sheriff feigning disinterest, and Babcia barely concealing a grin at the proceedings, Peter continued.

“I understand your concern. At the risk of hanging a lantern on the age difference, I know what it’s like to have a child and want to burn down the whole world just to give them whatever they want. Trust me when I say that I have considered Stiles’ future just as carefully, and I am willing to sacrifice for him. I made my own decisions regarding my career, despite a large and intrusive family with endless suggestions of their own, and I want him to have the same opportunity. Even if it means change for my life. He’s my _soulmate_.”

By the end his voice was ready, pleading, and Babcia took pity on him, patting his arm with a spindly hand and offering a warm smile.

“You passed the test. You may marry Mieczysław.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned, “Are we done? Do you need to polish a rifle and ask him about condoms next? Because I spent fucking forever on the pies and I’d like dessert, at least, to be peaceful.”

The Sheriff shot him a look that at least tried to be apologetic, and he got ready to wind back up again for a fight, when the doorbell cut through the tense silence.

“I’ll get it. You all play nice,” he huffed, and squirmed out from his spot against the wall.

He pulled open the door with perhaps more force than necessary, to one Scott McCall on his porch, flushed and wild-eyed, looking like he was going to bolt.

“Is your dad home?” he asked, words tumbling over one another, “because Mr Argent is right behind me.”

 

***

 

“What exactly are you suggesting?!”

“Maybe that your daughter doesn’t shit gold!”

“If she did she’d have better luck, maybe you should get on that.”

“Mama!”

“ _Excuse me?!”_

Stiles buried his face in his hands, desperately trying to keep the laughter at bay, although by the tremulous shaking of his shoulders he wasn’t doing a very good job.

Mr Argent was standing in their foyer, face sharp and angry, and Allison over his shoulder. Stiles hadn’t seen a gun holster, when he first blustered in, but there were a lot of places a guy like Chris could conceal one, and he totally got why Scott came to the Sheriff’s house first, with both of them blistering mad like this. Peter hovered nervously in the door to the kitchen, hands holding on the door jamb like he was expecting to have to duck for cover any second. The Sheriff was standing inches away from Chris, his firearm in full view on his hip, and one hand resting on the grip. He’d retrieved it as soon as he heard the panic in Scott’s voice, and rushed to pull him farther into the house and put himself between Scott and the door.

Babcia, on the other hand, had sauntered in with her glass still in her hand and settled on the stairs, watching things unfold with a chesire grin on her face, and Stiles had joined her, if only because he didn’t think his contributions would be at all welcomed in this fight.

Babcia had no such concerns.

“I said, maybe you’d have more luck finding your soulmate if you tried shitting gold. Or diamonds. Or maybe kittens. Anything that’ll get you on the news really.”

Allison pulled back as though slapped and any thread of embarassment, or maybe composure, that had clung to her before pulled away.

“So I should just throw myself into some campaign for attention? To meet, what, some stranger?”

Babcia shrugged, and Stiles laughed harder, both hands now clamped over his mouth to keep it muffled.

“That’s what you’re doing with this one, isn’t it?” she gestured to Scott with her head, “He found his soulmate, it’s not you, so you’ve got this whole song and dance going to try and woo him away.”

“He is not a stranger,” her voice was like venom, “We’ve been dating for four years. Derek is the stranger. He can’t just throw me away like this, I’m worth more than that.”

“Exactly,” the Sheriff said, and his face softened a little as he tried to catch her eye, “You’re worth more than this. The both of you.”

He shot a glare at Chris beside her.

“My daughter has a right to be angry.”

“Your daughter has a legal obligation to respect when a romantic partner tells her ‘no’. Or did you not have the consent talk in your house?”

Scott stepped forward, although he kept the bulk of his body behind the sheriff. He tried to catch Allison’s eye and when she refused, he caught Chris’s.

“Sir, I don’t want this. Are you really going to try and force me? Threaten me?”

“I’m going to try and reason with you,” Chris snarled, although his hackles were raised. Stiles knew Chris—even if only secondhand through Scott—and he knew how much he disliked being wrong-footed in a fight.

“So you are going to force me. You don’t care what I actually want, you just care that I say what you want me to say, do what you want me to do? That’s how it’s going to be, for the rest of my life, if I go with you and Allison right now?”

“Allison is—”

“Allison was always really kind during our relationship,” Scott grimaced, dropped his eyes finally, “but it can’t have been real if she jumped straight to rage as soon as I wanted to leave.”

Chris rocked back on his heels, and reached a hand out to grab Allison’s. Maybe in comfort, although he seemed defensive to Stiles. He nodded to the sheriff and then to Scott.

“Alright. We wanted a chance to reason with you and we got it, even if you aren’t listening. You won’t be as happy with any Hale, but that’s your funeral.”

“Dad!” Allison snapped, but Stiles saw her father grip her hand harder and she fell silent, and turned to glower at the wall.

“We’ll be seeing you around town.”

Chris turned on his heel and half-dragged his daughter towards the door, and back out into the front yard.

When the door shut behind him, it felt like everyone released a tense breath out into the room.

“I’ll assign a couple officers to keep an eye out for the Argents,” the sheriff laid a hand on Scott’s shoulder, “I don’t trust them at all.”

“Yeah,” Scott shrugged, “I guess I shouldn’t have either.”

 

***

 

After dessert, and with an adrenaline crash on the horizon for most of them, the Stilinskis (and Scott) crashed out in the living room in front of episodes of Star Trek. Babcia nodded off without any more dramatics to entertain her.

Peter and Stiles ended up on the back porch, sharing a bottle of wine between them.

“So after this,” Stiles started, and then he wasn’t sure exactly where to go. “ _After._ What are we going to tod?”

Peter hummed, “Regarding our conflict of interest with the school?"

“Yeah. I can’t drop out this late, and I couldn’t afford to lose the credit anyway. You said we could report it to the school board but—”

“We could. But I—” Peter coughed, “I’ve been thinking I might take another route. I said I was willing to give up my career for you and I meant it.”

“And I said you wouldn’t have to. Peter, things can’t be that bad already, you don’t have to—”

“No, let me finish,” he held up a hand to cut Stiles off before he got really going, “I also said how much I hate my job. Teaching law is a safe, stable job, and one that I got into for good reasons. Looking for my soulmate, obviously, but also it allowed me time to support my family, help Talia and Derek and Laura when the cousins got out of line. But now…I mean, you’re here. And they’re all adults, they can handle themselves. I know your father doesn’t believe it, but I’m not tied to that school. I could come with you, wherever you’d like to go, I could start a law practice or join one.”

Stiles grinned a little, and fiddled with the lip of the wine bottle.

“Employment and labor law.”

Peter nodded. “Employment and labor law.”

“You’d have to wait at least a few weeks. I put a lot of effort into my end of term paper and was assured it would mean one less final exam. Wouldn’t want the deadbeat professor to skip out before then.”

Peter laughed. He reached over to steal the wine bottle and knocked shoulders with Stiles along the way. “Your professor sounds like a real hardass if he wouldn’t excuse you anyway.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles leaned against him, loose and pliant and content, “a real indemnible bastard.”


End file.
